Til the love runs out
by kimmiesjoy
Summary: Post epi 8x02


_**A/N:**_ With thanks to my wonderful beta for putting up with me at 6am. __

* * *

 _ **I'll be doin' this, if you had a doubt,**_

 _ **'Til the love runs out, 'til the love runs out.**_

* * *

He feels the sob as though it's come from his own chest. Hears it, door open, heart, mind and soul attuned to the woman in the hallway. Hears it, and fists his hands at his side not to repeat it.

Castle takes a step, hesitates, no way of knowing she's doing the same thing, and for a moment they both teeter on the brink, close to bridging the distance. But when that beat of time passes and neither appear in that shadowed doorway, no remorse on her face or forgiveness on his, still unknown to the other, they both take a step back.

It's done, for whatever reason. Done, and killing them. Done, and yet somehow already hard to undo.

He stands, unmoving, and stares, the knife of pain in his chest making it hard to breathe. When he does finally bring himself to move, shaky limbs guide him back where he started.

He won't close the door.

Not now. Not for a while.

He can't bring himself to shut it nor check if she's taken her key. Both seem too final, too much like reality setting in. The only _real_ thing he wants to deal with is the incessant beeping coming from his kitchen.

He catches the pan before there's a fire, wisps of smoke coiling in his nostrils making him oddly nostalgic. Breakfast for dinner, her feet in his lap, and the faint, happy sound of her laugh as they talked about her promotion, not that long ago.

Now she's _gone_.

He cleans, his eyes flicking to the door every once in awhile, wondering what changed. From missing, to back and happy, to a bag packed and desperate pleas for forgiveness. His aching heart and the belief, the love he has for his wife battle it out, forcing him to throw dishes in the sink and ignore them in favour of cleaning the counter, just so he can stare into that empty doorway.

Pondering.

Asking himself, _why_?

Castle brings his fist down hard on the counter, flinches as the sound echoes in his now empty home.

It helps, and it doesn't.

His eyes burn and his heart thumps hard, anger a bitter thing that rises up and strikes viciously, asks unnecessary questions when really, he reminds himself, he needs to ask just _one_.

Does he _trust_ his wife?

The unequivocal answer to that is yes. Yes, he has questions, yes, he needs the full picture, but _trust_ is not the issue.

So what is?

What _changed_?

What drove her to this? This unspeakable place and that broken sob. This desperation and need to _leave_.

They've worked cases back to back since the day they met, hard, gruelling, personal cases and he's standing here angry, forgetting the most important thing.

It's about the _story_.

It's about the missing pieces that make this all make sense, about the ins and outs and things he's missed that explain her decision. Why she did what she did with tears in her eyes, breaking both their hearts, yet unable to stop herself.

It's about Beckett, but more than that, he realises with stuttered breath, it's about him. It's about her _protecting_ him.

He stops dead in the process of crossing the room, level with the open door he will _not_ close and outside the door to a room where he will _not_ sleep, not tonight. Not without _her_. Instead he moves to his office, no giant board here now just paper, a pen, and a screen that blinks to life too slowly for his racing heart and mind.

There's more to this story, more he can't quite put his finger on yet, so he writes what he _knows_.

It's meagre, the bare bones, more chapter outline than plot, but it's a start. And once he _starts_ he finds he cannot _stop_. Once his fingers are moving, information flowing, he pours every detail he knows onto the page. Words and codes from the case, small details, overheard snippets. No online paper trail, just his hand and ink and the stretched out elements of a story he doesn't quite have a grasp on yet. But this is what he does. He builds the theories, he plays with the puzzle and he puts the pieces together, adding finally - perhaps most importantly - things he has learned over the years about Beckett.

It gallops out of him, rage subverted through task, anger focused on finding a resolution. Because this, this is not okay. This choice to run, this asking for forgiveness and not letting him in, this protecting him and maybe, in the process, sacrificing herself, will not stand. He will not watch her die. He will not be without his wife.

So, if there is hope, if this is how they find their way back, then _this_ is where he starts. Amassing information, stockpiling details, working out _what_ she's terrified of telling him, _why_ she feels the need to protect him.

He will work it out, will piece it together even if she's gone, because in doing so maybe, eventually, she will come home. So he'll fly under the radar and he'll poke his nose in and he'll investigate without her, until he can be her _partner_ once more.

 _This_ is what he does. Determination a bright, burning thing now that fuels the words that leave his pen, that garner ideas and stokes the fire to go into battle. Nothing about them has ever been easy, but he'll be damned if he doesn't go down without a fight.

It's about the _story_ , it's _always_ about the story.

And theirs is far from over.


End file.
